


That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

by permetaform (ladywinter)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Other, cookie porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/permetaform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the eggnog.</p><p>(warning: cookie porn. As in John and Rodney turn into cookies, which of course means that then they have sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

When they looked back and tried to figure out how it all started, they blamed it on the week-old eggnog and gingerbread that Novak found on the _Daedalus_.

Which was only partially right, because it had nothing to do with the eggnog.

It started here:

  
[  
](http://www.joyofbaking.com/GingerbreadMen.html)  
Or at least, that's what it looked like in John's not-dream.

[]

Rodney gets highly disturbed by a great many things; he is honest enough with himself to admit this. He lives in a constant state of more or less disturbance and finds that things are just more efficient that way.

He does not understand why his nipples are made of icing.

He does not understand this _loudly_.

They are little sharp points of icing on his chest that smell vaguely of vanilla and spice and everything nice. (But Rodney refuses to believe that he's "a little girl"; he, in fact, chokes back his girly scream when he looks further down and notices _things_ missing.)

He tells himself this is a dream. He knows this, because there's no ground and no sky. Rodney knows that he's not made of all-purpose flour and three-fourths cup dark sugar.

He thinks he hears the colonel, and that's important. He goes towards the sound of Sheppard's voice though he can't tell for the life of him if he's moving forwards or backwards or up or down.

[]

He is on a table. Again.

They ask him:

"Do you know the Muffin Man?"

"The muffin man?" John wrinkles his forehead.

"The Muffin Man!" They start shaking him. Crumbs fall off.

"Do I know the muffin man?" He gasps out.

"--THAT LIVES ON DRURY LANE?"

John thinks they may have shaken off an ear or two.

It's at that point that the jellies of the fruitcake walls (which kinda looked like stained glass, honest, or maybe squids) start glowing in sequence, and in the middle of the panic, McKay pulls him off the table and shoves him towards the door.

"Colonel, now's a good time to _run_."

They barely make it outside before the multicolored fruit jellies simultaneously turn a violent Goldenrod Of Catastrophic Failure and the entire fruitcake explodes in a fit of holiday cheer.

John gets up after the blast debris have settled. He tells himself that this is not a dream.

He knows this, because it if were a dream he'd already have a beer in his hand.

"Huh, the jelly component of the fruitcake works just like a ZPM on overlo--"

"Look, they even made us a house."

John cuts McKay off because he knows that this is not-a-dream and saying ' _there's no place like home_ ' didn't work this time and he doesn't know who stuck them in this place but he _would honestly like his ears back._ (He opened his eyes. Dammit, thinking it really, really hard did not make it happen.

Oh right, not-a-dream.)

McKay thankfully had shut up about the ZPM and was suitably distracted by the whimsical structure made completely of spun sugar. John raised one icing eyebrow.

"It looks like Atlantis."

Rodney pfffed, "It's a dream, of course it does."

[]

What disturbs Rodney the most is that he still finds John edible.

He is following the colonel down the sugar-crystal hallways of his dream and thinks that at least here his lack-of-ass makes sense. Or as much sense as not having, say, fingers or genitalia. Does craving cookies make him a cannibal? Freud would have a field day; that is, if Rodney was stupid enough to ever let Freud near his brain, which he isn't.

The most delicious smell is coming off of John's gingerbread skin. It's somewhat like, but not quite, the smell that's coming off his own. The scent's something indefinable, cinnamon maybe, and it makes Rodney want to _eat_ him.

John suddenly stops and pushes Rodney into a room. Footsteps pass outside but Rodney finds himself still staring into the icing orbs of John's eyes.

"Rodney you smell like..." John leans in.

Oh what the hell, if dream-John is _willing_...

Rodney catches the moving wiggle of John's mouth and smooshes his lips against it. John tastes a little like vanilla and a little like he's trying to talk, so Rodney lets him.

"So you're not Rodney."

"What?" _What?_ "Of course I am! I may not look like my usual stunning self but that's no reason to be absurd."

John licks his nipples and it shakes him down to his gingersnap core.

Okay. He doesn't know what caused John to change his mind but he can go with this.

[]

John knew this was a not-dream so when he heard what sounded like Human voices coming down the hall he shoved them both into a room. He is _gingerbread_ right now; he knows that he's really far down the food chain at this point, and despite what McKay thinks he _does_ have some sense of self-preservation. He also has had more than enough experience with being shoved onto various dinner tables, and he would prefer not to be almost-eaten again, today, thank you very much.

He waited for the footsteps to pass, and thinks that McKay seemed to be breathing too heavily so he peered at McKay's face. His eyes seem wider than usual; it's hard to tell because they're made of icing and John kept on being distracted by the scent of nutmeg and cloves. It sorta reminded him of home-before-everything-went-all-FUBAR. (He still secretly blames his dad, though he tells himself he's forgiven him since before Antartica)

Next thing he knows, he's being kissed, and John kicks himself for assuming things. He thought he'd always be able to recognize Rodney, but then again they appear to be _gingerbread_ and John's _ears fell off_ and John should know by now not to trust his senses in compromised situations.

It's not as if John hasn't been faced with enough seduction schemes to know the drill, and he figured that the illusion will be faithful enough to his knowledge of Rodney (even in pastry-form) that the cookie will _talk_ , given enough prompting.

Right then.

John licks the little icing peaks (ooo, vanilla) and is gratified to see the gingerbread man shake.

" _John_! Oh--oh _fuck_ yeah, keep on doing that!"

So yeah, not Rodney, because John has yet to hear McKay call him anything other than 'Sheppard' or 'Colonel'. He wonders why the gingerbread had chosen to imitate McKay but figures that it knew that he knew that nobody else could blow up the fruitcake on such short notice.

[]

Rodney may be a genius but John's mouth right now is _inspired_. Rodney tells him this, tells him _yes_ , tells him he _doesn't care this is just a dream_ , tells him _Sam *Carter* can't match your artistry_ , then _did I *tell* you to stop, what are you, ohdon'tstop, please don't--*oh*_ , and then:

"What the---did you lick away my nipples?!"

"Well they are _icing_. And it's not like I heard any complaints."

"You are _so_ not giving me a blowjob!"

John just raises an eyebow, looks at him, then looks down at his gingerbread crotch. "Of course Rodney, I'll be giving your non-existent dick a blow job. God, seeing as you don't _have_ a penis, I don't think you need to worry about it."

"Well you don't have to be a _jerk_ about it." Rodney starts moving away but John just rolls his eyes, sighs, and reached for him.

"C'mere."

And then he is folded up into cinnamony arms and John licks his neck and his hips jerks forward and whoa, there is, there is _pressure_ and Rodney grabs for John's non-existent ass except it isn't so non-existant under his palm and he presses down - _and oh_ \- and John puffs against his neck in surprise and Rodney shiveres against the sweetness. It should have been strange, but it was warm and sweet and felt strangely safe, John smelling so _good_ , that he wants to sink into him he is pressing John back against a wall he is reaching behind them he slides the narrow tip of his not-quite-hand back and forth between John's legs and he is _shaking_ , _they_ are shaking, the flicker of John's tongue against his neck unsteady like the rocky jolts of John's hips against his like the jerky-nervous motion of John's hand towards the seam of his own legs and he tell him _yes, like that, right there, harder, *there*, John, ohgod *John*_ he tells him in a steady steady litany as they find their rhythm to his voice his breaths his _words_ rocking against John's moans, moans that fall out of John like John doesn't know what they were doing in his _mouth_ , he sounds, he sounds, Rodney's words pitch out of his mouth and, and-- _breaks_.

 _\---oh._

He feels melted.

Baked crispy on the outside, and all warm and gooey within.

[]

There are crumbs _everywhere_ , John thinks, with the part of his mind that could think. The rest of him was trying not to process that he'd just had mind-blowing sex with a _cookie_.

" _How_ was that even possible?" The gingerbread man really does sound like McKay.

John goes over what he could remember and was slightly dismayed to realize that he could only conclude they, whoever _they_ were, somehow knew at least Carter's name and maybe something of the SGC. Also, they'd wanted John to believe he was in a dream, which was patently untrue because he still doesn't have a beer. Nor does he have his ears back. (Though how he could hear is still up in the air, he assumes it's through vibrations)

"I mean, neither of us have, to all outward appearances, any genitalia." Pause. "Huh, maybe this is what girls feel like when they have sex."

John just groans and hits him with a pillow.

Pillow.

Oh hey.

He looks around. It looks like their infirmary, only not. The gingerbread man starts freaking out about all the crumbs, and _were they *insane*_ , and _I'm shedding my whole *body*_ \--

"Does that look like a pastry tube to you?"

"A what? A pastry--actually, it kinda does. Reminds me of what my mother used to use to make icing flowers and stuff."

"Do you think it'll," John waves at the gingerbread man's lack-of-nipples, "Fix that?"

"Eh, worth a try. Worse comes to worse, I'll just wake up." The gingerbread man hops onto the bed and looks at John expectantly. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

John is sort of surprised that the gingerbread man would slip so far out of character, and wonders why it's so important for him to believe that this is a dream. He mentally shrugs and moves the tube into place.

"Oh before you do this, just in case, you know, I," the little lump of gingerbread adam's apple bobbled like an uncertain soufflé, "I just want you to know, since I can say it _here_ , not like--anyways I still find you edible. Now. And before." The cookie squirmed under John's alarmed look. "You know what, just forget it, just turn the damned thing on."

John never expected that cookies ate _each other_ too, he'd thought there'd be rules against that, though it would explain why the infirmary seems more extensive here than back home. He would have to be on his guard, then.

The timer dings, and the cookie popped out with a fresh set of nipples.

"Huh, look, it worked!"

John quickly moved forward and pinned the gingerbread man against the bed, "Mind if I test them out?" John figures that if he's more aggressive the cookie won't make any quick moves towards eating him.

Not-Rodney nods and starts babbling again, which is just fine by John because that means its mouth will be preoccupied. He mentally braces himself for a long night.

[]

Rodney is impressed by dream-John's refractory period. It normally takes him an hour to get it up again.

Or not; under John's coaxing, Rodney finds himself panting and screaming and _gone_ within a third of the time.

He hopes that this detail carries through to when he wakes up, but he knows he has shitty luck (and it's not like they're fucking outside of his dreams anyways) so he might as well enjoy it while he can.

(Rodney is slightly disturbed to find that even in his fantasies John's smile becomes more and more _brittle_ as the night goes on, and his eyes more coldly intense. They fuck on every surface in that room, twice, and it feels like he's sticky all over with molassus-like sweat, his limbs shaking as John pounds against him hard, then _harder_ , and it vaguely hurts but Rodney can't tell him to stop and John doesn't pause to ask.

There are crumbs--there are crumbs _*everywhere*_ , bruising the slick sharp surfaces with brownlikeoldblood. Rodney feels like he's cracking and falling _apart_ under John's palms. John just _stares_ at him and tells Rodney to tell him _more_ and Rodney does and Rodney _does_.

He finally blacks out, to the image of John's minty-cold eyes.)

[]

John wakes up. There are streamers on the opaque, non-spun-sugar ceiling. He twitches all his fingers. Okay.

Maybe it _was_ a dream, one that he's blaming on the spiked eggnog. But that still doesn't explain why he couldn't dream himself a beer, because he'd always been able to lucidly dream on far more alcohol than he'd had last night, and it doesn't explain why he dreamt that he was fucking a _Wraith_.

There's a weird sensation on his head.

And something that feels like drool. And.

He thinks he hears McKay mumbling something about icing as he jerks his head away and sits up.

John realizes with a sinking sensation that Rodney had been _chewing_ on his _head_. He also realizes that Zelenka was Right There with a Polaroid camera, and the Czech is an evil and sneaky sonofabitch (and still ticked off that he'd been sent to the planet of the kids) so John's first gonna take stock and do some damage control and try figure out if he's still in the right universe and not in one that's, say, pastry-filled.

John's a smart guy; he can multitask.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** This fic arose almost directly from a crack!chat between me and spaggel; rest assured that there's more on the way, pretty much all outlined, and even more cracktastic. Many thanks also to fashes for lines and cheerleading, emelerin for whipping the grammar into shape (all remaining errors are mine) and spot-check storywise, lierdumoa for reminding me of Shrek and for pseudo-sciencing the premise, and adrienne2 for audiencing!


End file.
